Fireworks (IA Excerpt)
0430 Hours, February 12, 2535 (Military Calendar)/ Lambda Serpentis System, Jericho VII Theater of Operations “Did Captain Azi know Niko?” Waimarie opened one eye, and caught Kenneth carefully sitting alongside her, his faceplate depolarized for the first time since their second night there. He looked nervous—a bit out of his comfort zone, for whatever reason. She steadied her gaze into his. He didn’t look away, but was clearly uncomfortable the longer she sat there staring blankly, her face hidden behind her own visor. She thought back to that moment...what seemed like weeks ago now, where the scene was turned. Time had dilated days into a decade while in the trenches, and she couldn’t look away as the world spun in slow motion. When a distant rifle fired a burst down the line, she snapped back to reality. The Marines were seeing shadows—that was to be expected. She depolarized her visor, shook her head, and shuffled in place nervously. “Azi was Niko’s CO. Served together since OCS.” Kenneth cocked his head, enlightened, and looked up at the dim morning twilight starting to creep across the sky. His eyes darted nervously in front of him, before closing and resting his helmet against the wall on the back of the foxhole. Waimarie tried not to focus on the Spartan’s body language. Never in her life did something—someone—simultaneously deeply infuriate and intrigue her—Spartan mythicality aside. Ken had proven an impressive warrior and leader. He wasn’t quite the emotionless husk she had envisioned when she had first met Green Team. Their training had indeed made them cold and calculated—as they would need to be to be warrior elite. And, she considered, this wasn’t too different from the molding of an ODST into an expert killer. But, even killers were human. The Spartans, human, cyborg or...whatever they were: they did care for their fellow soldiers. She imagined, at times, the service was all they had. Ken...he was able to step back from it all though: the bureaucracy of rank, the fog of war, and the haze of a firefight. It was his ability to see above the chaos that saved her before. She frowned. Her thoughts were uneasy enough that she couldn’t help it. Speculating halfheartedly, she supposed she’d been “gifted” a concussion in the days prior. The messy alternative she had been considering was a drastically terrible matter for her psyche. In fact, that was the end of it, as far as she was concerned. She couldn’t—no: wouldn’t begin to relegate her thoughts to opening that rotten can of worms. It was rotten to the core. She pinched herself. Thinking of home distracted her a bit. She thought of her family in Christchurch, huddled around her brother, explaining how he had lost another teina to this twisted war. She felt sorry for them, particularly for her mother who had never gotten over Niko’s death. But, still, she felt no regret—her papa’s resilience ran strong in her veins. How ironic too, she judged sardonically, that she would likely die on Niko’s birthday. The whole reason she was there to begin with was to honor him, and she supposed with her death that the circle would be complete. But, in an odd way, she felt she was supposed to be there. She believed now that she was ready to die. Still, she didn’t want to. She prayed it didn’t hurt. After a minutes silence, Kenneth looked back down to the dirt of the foxhole before clearing his throat, breaking Waimarie’s self-reflective trance. “It’s... interesting,” he spoke cautiously,“how much a single person can leave an impact on so many.” Waimarie hesitated. The fucker was opening the can of worms. Goddammit. “Yeah...It would have been his 25th birthday, today” she deflected. His faceplate repolarized. He stood back up, and began to keep watch over the line. The proverbial can opener had been tossed over the cliff. “I appreciate you speaking up, back there.” He spoke candidly, quickly changing the subject. Waimarie nodded assuringly, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “I don’t know if it needed to be said, I just...ya’ know: said it.” She shrugged. Kenneth took in a deep breath, contemplatively. “We…well, I''” he explained, “have a tendency to be a bit detached from the larger picture. The ‘esprit de corps’” he waved his hand across his face randomly, “is deeply rooted with us Spartans. Training is just… really ingrained. Sometimes we forget ourselves. And, in that moment…” he trailed off and became silent, “...it was just the mission. It’s how we are.” ''There’s that can again. What the hell is he doing? “Yeah, I know, mate.” she shrugged off his signals, “No worries.” Waimarie sighed. The Spartan didn’t continue on. He remained standing, a bulwark, maintaining its task; a warrior no longer vulnerable. His chest was clear, and his work was now that was before him. Focus was his only focus. As a faint shadow began to manifest over the foxhole, a ray of morning sun caught Waimarie’s eye. She immediately checked her rifle, and then stood and crawled to the top of the hole to check the front. The Covenant lines were stirring—their attack was imminent. Diligently watching the line through his scope, The Spartan paused for a moment when he saw her join him. “I hope Niko liked fireworks, Sergeant, because we’re about to set off quite the show. She smirked. “Roger that, Spartan. Birthday or not, he'd love it.” Category:Stories Category:The Weekly